The Woman
by DrinkingAlcoholicRainbows
Summary: The thing is that people forget she's a person too. People forget that she's not a robot. People that include herself. Those people, however, do not include the team. :: Natasha Romanoff has feelings too.


_And yet there was but one woman...of dubious and questionable memory._

* * *

In Shield, at the headquarters, in front of Fury and Hill and the occasional council, it's easy. It's almost too easy. To slip on the mask that she never took off, to slip on the mask that she will never be able to take off, not completely. It's simple to pass by agents and people and not give a damn, even though they were people who had once ordered for her to be killed. The newcomers are always quick to raise their eyebrows at her, when they hear. They usually do.

It's alright. If it was her, Natasha would have ordered herself killed too.

So she's silent and unassuming and and easy enough to miss, hiding in the shadows and watching. Hearing. It's also easy enough to see what they think about her. A simple line by the edge of their mouth, a crease on their forehead, a twitch in their fingers, reaching out for their guns. Irritation. Disbelief. Jealousy. They think it's unfair. She was a target, she was a mark. Then Barton opens her eyes (_and this, this is the part that they get wrong_, she thinks. They always get it wrong. They think it was with a kiss, a hand on her breasts, murmurs fading away into sweaty skin. It wasn't. It was with her head and Clint's fist and something called cognitive recalibration), and she's hired. A spy. She turns out to be one of Shield's best. And they think it unfair, because she's a killer and they aren't.

In the darkness, alone by herself, she admits it. She's hurt. She's been loyal to Shield ever since, never thought of leaving, not once. She's obedient and follows orders and she does her job. She does her job well. She hasn't killed anyone who didn't deserve it, not since Clint had shown up, who showed himself, his bow and quiver slung behind his back, and didn't shoot. She knows she's not a good person, she would never be. But she tries, and puts up with it, puts up with them, who judge her with silent questions and quiet accusations.

They never say anything to her unless it was necessary. Out of respect she never knew she had, she does the same.

When Clint is there, accompanying her in the sea of black, it's better. He snarks at her and isn't afraid of her and smiles at her as if she deserves it. Knowing him, he thinks so. And Natasha snarks back, a tentative quirk of her lips, caring to show enough emotion to appear human, but not too much for him to fully see it. She was trained for it, the phrase, _"Trust no one,"_ echoing in her brain from there to here, long after when it should have gone.

Emotion means weakness. Weakness means you die. Weakness means you're not strong. Weakness means you won't survive the cold. It was always cold, and winter was always coming.

When she does that, Clint's smiles suddenly become brittle.

* * *

"Fury says we have to live at Stark's tower," Clint says, jumping off from the vents. Natasha, used to this, sips her coffee and raises an eyebrow.

"What," she says flatly, "is he thinking."

He shrugs as an answer, grabbing a cup from behind her. Playfully, she moves them away. Clint steps back, looking her in the eye, an eyebrow up and an unimpressed look on his face. She stares back, making her eyes wide, and he pouts.

"Agent Romanoff," Clint proclaims, in an uncanny impression of Jack Sparrow, waving his arms. "Do know who your superiors are." She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, forcing herself to stay stoic and stony and a marble statue of innocence. But Clint drops the act, and grins knowingly, and she knows he noticed the twitch on her lips.

"Considering my superiors aren't that smart, I don't think I have to listen," Natasha says, smoothly and with ease. She takes another sip from her cup, not able to stop herself from smiling at the scalding liquid going down her throat. "Now what were you saying? Some new kind of sadistic torture Fury came up with?"

Clint snorts, putting himself by her side, and swiftly, Natasha pushes the cups another inch away. "Fury says we have to live at Stark's tower, which, I guess, is some kind of torture. I tell you Nat, one day in there and we'll wish we were back at Nice, fighting off that crazed egomaniac with the silver scythe. Remember him?"

It's Natasha's turn to snort, as he makes another move to grab a cup from behind. "He made passes at me as I made my knives make death threats to his throat. I'm pretty sure he was getting off on that, actually. I remember."

Clint hums. "He was. I almost feel bad for him, dying with his needs unfulfilled." Natasha elbows him, and he laughs out, "I was kidding!"

As revenge, Natasha pushes the cups a few more inches away from Clint's seeking hands.

"So," she says, downing the rest of her coffee in one go as Clint watches in envy, "Stark. I do not want to go through that again."

"You know," Clint drawls, his eyebrows furrowing together as he stretches his arms behind him and finds no cups in his reach, "at least we have company."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Yes, Clint. The only thing that matters is that at least other people suffer with us."

Clint looks at her and grins. "I'm getting to you."

To shut him up, she promptly takes a cup from behind her and shoves it in his face. Clint's crow of delight, as loud and as ridiculous as it is, makes her smile as she makes her way to the door. It's not like he can see it anyway.

* * *

Stark comes to her in the third night, a glass in his hand and a smirk on his face, saying, "I believe you have to call me Lord Stark now," eyeing the book in her hands. Unimpressed, Natasha looks up from _A Clash of Kings_, her face set in a frown.

"Howard Stark's bastard," she quips, as Stark takes a seat in front of her. His lips twitch, screaming _you've got some nerve_. She supposes he's right. "What do you want?"

"I want popcorn in my hands and Jarvis to stop being a smartass and all of you out of my house," he drawls, taking a sip. She waits. "I also want to rid the world of people who hate coffee, seeing that it's practically a moral sin and all. But other than that?"

Stark looks her in the eye, his grin suddenly appearing serious. "Nothing much."

Natasha stares back, lips pursued. "You want to talk."

He has the gall to laugh. "Natasha, Natalie, whoever you are? Romanoff, let's go with Romanoff, I don't think we're on first name basis yet, can't see why - I just said I wanted to kick your asses down the curb and close the door. You? You won't let me, and you're smarter than that. I know it. I don't want to talk. I want you to listen.

"See, you're a spy, Romanoff. Anything coming out of my mouth right now could be recorded and sent off to Fury. And he'll be wanting proof. Proof that he can trust me to be an Avenger. I'm in a trial period, aren't I? I'm a consultant. You'd think, you know," Stark smirks here, Natasha can't see why, "that saving the world gives you a guaranteed spot. That almost dying, being ready to sacrifice your life for so many more? A kid would think that _hey, I'm a hero, you owe me_. But Shield still wants me to prove myself. They're a bunch of hypocrites."

"You do realize," Natasha says, "that I'm a Shield agent, and so is Clint?"

Stark's lips twist into a smile. "No, you're not anymore. You're an Avenger."

"I still have to do missions for them. I have an op in Dublin in a week." He knows this. He hacks into Shield's files and he doesn't hesitate in bragging that he can. It's annoying, but also a reminder of how dangerous Tony Stark can be, even outside of the suit. Very dangerous.

"But you'd stay if we needed you to."

Natasha waits. But there isn't anything following, not a bit of sarcasm or a one-liner or even a smug smirk headed in her direction. In fact, he isn't even looking at her. He's staring out into the streets of New York, still bright and alive and loud at midnight. Maybe especially then. And she's staring at him, still waiting, still wondering what's going through his head at the moment, wondering if he's looking for something out there.

Until then, she's stuck with the revelation that for once, Stark said the truth. And he believed it.

Slowly, she begins to stand up, when Stark breaks the silence.

"Do you trust me, Natasha?"

And she looks back to see wide, brown eyes asking, pleading for honesty. Suddenly, Natasha is hit with the realization that, for all his years, all of this is still relatively new to him. For most of his life, his battlefield was the galas and the parties and the board meetings. And now, in less than a year, he's suddenly Iron Man, with all these expectations and labels he doesn't know how to live up to. A hero, a good man, a savior - those were practically a foreign language to Stark. He underwent three months of torture, had his life cruelly and painfully reshaped, and now he can't even breathe properly.

She feels a pang in her chest, and she realizes she feels sorry.

Natasha turns and heads for the door, but before that, she murmurs, "I think I will."

* * *

The next morning, he stumbles into the kitchen and she calls him Tony instead of Stark, and the grin she gets is blinding.

* * *

Natasha bumps into Thor two weeks after that. He was at the balcony, his hair whipping on his face, his eyes closed and simply there. Timidly, she approaches him, but making enough sound for him not to be surprised when she says, "I didn't think you'd be here."

Thor turns to look at her, a serene smile on his face, "It reminds me of home."

She walks over to the spot beside him, feeling his eyes on her as she gazes at the Manhattan skyline. "It reminds me of freedom," she says, and it's true. To see the city like this, spread out and open, big and large and bustling; it makes her heart beat faster and her mouth open. She breathes, in and out, with the thought that she is a part of this, a part of them, and that she will continue fighting if it means she can come back to see this. Thor nods at her, and the look in his eyes is wistful.

"It reminds me of the homes I have," he whispers, like a secret. If it is, Natasha knows she will keep it. "First, the one I took for granted. Asgard, that is my birthplace, with my father and mother and the Warriors Three. It is where I was born a boy, a foolish one, and where I was innocent and ignorant. Where I was with Loki, not the villain, but Loki, my brother. "

Thor gives her a look, and she swivels her head to see earnest blue eyes staring at her. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and stares back, a silent _I will listen_ reverbating through their touch. He looks grateful as he smiles at her, and continues.

"The second is with my beloved Jane," Thor says, and it sounds like a king's proclamation. He's proud, Natasha realizes, and he's happy he met her, knew of her, had a chance to fall in love with her. Unwillingly, a part of her hisses out, _Nobody will ever talk about you like that._ She pushes it down. "It is with her that I grew. I understood humility, and wonder, and love, when she came. I wish to wed her, and make her my queen, and we shall rule the lands with her wisdom and my strength. I wish she was here," he adds, and slowly, he takes Natasha's hand off his shoulder and covers it with his own.

"The third," Thor looks at her, almost laughing, and he looks joyful. He looks young. He looks like he, finally, _finally_, found a place where he belongs. Natasha stares at his hand, while trying not to relish at the warmth and comfort it gives her. "My third home is here."

She looks up at him, possibly looking strangely vulnerable as she does, and he smiles at her like she's family.

Natasha is confused by that, because surely, he doesn't mean here. Not _here_, not now, not with her or anyone in this tower. Because, she knows, they are all broken. They are their own little brand of misfits, ragtag and somehow important, lost and sad and terrifyingly alone. It's darkness, that's what they are. Fumbling and making mistakes and calling themselves heroes. They fight because that's all they have left. That isn't home. They aren't home. So she stares at Thor, her expression blank, and not understanding how he could say that.

"Perhaps," he says, deep and hypnotizing, "one day, friend Natasha, you will see that. So will the others. I am only blessed that I am seeing it now."

Thor leaves her there, and Natasha stares at his retreating back even after it's gone.

* * *

"I've always wondered how you could move so gracefully," Steve says. They're in his bedroom, her sitting primly on one of the chairs, and him standing behind a canvas. It's been five days since Thor spoke to her, and five minutes since Steve politely asked if she could model for him. When she asked, sardonically, if she had to be naked whilst doing so, he turned to look at her with wide eyes and said, _no, not necessary, and it would never be_.

Silently, she rearranged her mental assessment of the good captain, and decided to be nicer to him from now on.

Something she thinks she accomplished when she rolled her eyes and said, "Why not?"

It's been quiet since then, and Steve just broke the silence.

Natasha thinks she should answer honestly.

"Before I was," she says in a low voice, and the only sounds are Steve's charcoal rasping against his canvas, "before I was being trained, I always wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to show the world that I have a pretty good mind _and_ a pretty face. I wanted to be someone special, I wanted the spotlight, and I wanted people to think I was _good_. I watched my mother's reels and I practiced. I practiced. And I was good. People told me I was good. But do you know what's more important than that, what was the most important thing?

"I don't know if you know this, Steve, but I used to be a dreamer."

And it's quiet. Natasha wills herself to keep breathing. She watches as Steve, hesitantly, slowly, painfully silently, puts down the charcoal and wipes away the black on his pants. She closes her eyes, waiting for tell-tale footsteps of somebody leaving her in the dark again. It's there. And the tears leave her eyes, dripping down her face, because back then she used to be a dreamer. She used to dream about being somebody important, and she used to believe she had the potential to be. She used to believe in heroes. And now? She's too used to being surrounded by shadows, too used to being alone, and she's _too used_. She isn't going to kid herself fancying to be someone good. With a dozen lies and a hundred more, she can allow herself one truth. And the truth is she doesn't dream anymore, because she _can't._

So she doesn't know why there are arms around her, and why they feel so real.

"It's okay," Steve whispers, as a sob racks through her. She doesn't know why this is real. Why Steve stayed. Why he's whispering into her hair, why he's holding her like she's breakable, or why she feels like she is. But for once, for once, she lets him. She lets him see this side of her she thought had long since disappeared, hidden behind her mask.

Steve continues making promises, his lips moving against her hair, her grip on his arms strong.

"You're allowed to be human, Natasha," he says. "You're allowed just to be Natasha, not Agent Romanoff, not Black Widow. You can be yourself here. And we wouldn't stop being here. We wouldn't stop saving you. Helping you. We're your friends, and we trust you, and we think you're good." It's scary how much it soothes her, being close enough to hear his heartbeat, being hugged, hearing this, and she allows herself to relax as Steve plunges on. "We think you're very good. Better than good. Great. We think you're great. And it's true. You're great."

After a few seconds, Natasha pulls herself away, and by then she's calm enough to say, "You've been hanging around Tony a lot, haven't you?"

Steve gives her a sheepish grin, and she smiles. "Yeah, you wouldn't believe the contrast between his ego and his self-esteem. Like comparing a giant to a dwarf." He notices her smiling at him, and gives one, a tentative one, back. It's small, but it's big enough to start something. It's not romantic, it's far from it, but a golden string is shining through her darkness, and it makes everything brighter.

What is romantic, however, is the look in Steve's eyes. She doesn't say anything about it, but she suspects her starting to trust people isn't the only beginning that's happened these past weeks.

Steve doesn't finish his drawing, and the darkness hasn't left her yet, and the both of them don't mind.

* * *

As she's leaving his room, Natasha realizes that it was the first time Steve called her by name.

* * *

It's Bruce, and of course it's Bruce, who catches her as she's leaving the gym a week after the thing with Steve. She still doesn't know what to call it, but Natasha does suppose that calling it My Emotional Encounter With Steve Rogers That Was Stupid And Awkward And Very Stupid was too long. She looks at Bruce, who holds his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.

"You and I need to talk, I think," he says, and smiles. She looks at him and nods. He lets his hands drop, walks away and she follows.

Natasha wonders what he's going to say as she walks into the elevator and Jarvis asks, "Where to, Doctor Banner?"

Bruce smiles, and says, "Natasha's floor, Jarvis. Thanks." The woman in question looks at him curiously, raising an eyebrow, and he turns his head with eyes that say just trust me. For reasons she can't fathom, she does. She doesn't know why.

When the doors slide open, he's still looking at her when he says, "Lead the way."

When her door creaks open, she's the one looking at him when she says, "Ladies first," and gestures to her room. Bruce gives her a weak smile, his mouth open as if to laugh, but a laugh that he's too afraid to share. He slinks into the room, Natasha closely watching his movements, and only closing the door when Bruce is seated on the edge of her bed. She doesn't follow, not this time, and instead stands in front of him, silently waiting as he twiddles with his fingers, not looking at her.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, a whisper through his lips. Natasha breathes, and so does he, and for a while it's the only sound in the room until Bruce looks up at her with kind eyes. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he repeats, louder. And she doesn't move.

"You were scared, terrified, even. The other guy, the Hulk," here, he lets out a shaky sigh, then plunges on, "I don't suppose you were trained for that. Nobody is. He's not, you know, he's _different_. It hasn't happened before, it won't happen after, and I will be the first and the only. They will look back on me as a mistake, and they will try not to make it again. Maybe one day, someone will try to make their own, but it won't be the same, because the original is always different from the rest. Look at Dummy, You, Butterfingers, Jarvis. They're different. And so am I.

"I didn't mean to. I lost control. And I'm sorry." Bruce smiles, shakily, and it's more self-deprecating than comforting. "I understand if you don't trust me. I understand if you're not okay. But I really hope you are, because I really believe we could be friends, one day."

Then it's quiet again, but this time it's Bruce that's waiting. And Natasha sighs, closes her eyes, and lays her weary head to rest on the wall.

"I didn't understand the other guy, is all," she says, "And I didn't understand you. Not fully. Transformation is something you see in Japanese television, and it doesn't usually happen in real life. For my career, I dealt with people. They looked like people. But the other guy is something else. He's humanoid. It was easy, to deal with the Chitauri, because I knew that they were literally out of this world. Seeing the other guy is different, because this time I know that it's something that was made by human hands.

"I trust you, Doctor Banner." And she leaves it at that, her dozens of lies leading to another one. Natasha stares Bruce down, daring him to question, to challenge, to think she's wrong.

Bruce looks at her for a moment, and then stands up. As he passes by her, he lays a hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting, and he says, "It's okay to admit you're scared, every once in a while. It's healthy." Then he smiles and leaves.

* * *

The next time the Hulk is out, it's her he catches, not Iron Man.

"Red okay?" he grunts, and Natasha smiles, blood in her teeth and her vision hazy.

* * *

She's lucky, they said. Lucky they took her in. She's got a broken tailbone and a bruised jaw, a black eye and a beating heart. She's also got a working brain, and good reflexes, or else she couldn't have dodged the bullet that would've caught her in the stomach. She's got lungs that breathe, giving her air, and she's also got conviction. She's deadly, in and out the battlefield, they said. Perfect for Shield. A survivor. She's lucky.

Lucky. What a joke.

They forget she's spectacularly not lucky too. They don't notice the darkness that engulfs her. It leaves her weak, doubtful, confused. She feels like she's suffocating, losing, dying-too slow, too fast, everything hitting her and it makes her _crack_. But the thing about hiding in the shadows is that if you make a sound, you lose. And for all she wants to scream, she can't. Because screaming means you're affected. Screaming means you're hurt. Screaming means you're broken, too broken to be used, and screaming means weakness.

Weakness means you won't survive when winter comes, and winter always comes.

She's adapted to it. Made herself as cold as the ice that pierces her, so it wouldn't hurt anymore. But now she can feel the absence of warmth, now that she's gotten a taste of it herself. It was comforting, a sweet lick of summer days, a dash of lime, and a pint of what she thinks must be love.

When the Hulk caught her, it was hard. Harsh. And everything hurt. But after, he cradled her to his chest with tenderness. Natasha had leaned into him, her eyes shut, simply breathing and her heart beating and a bead of light shining through her darkness.

A darkness that engulfed her.

And then the cold settled in.

* * *

The first sound she heard was a relieved sigh.

"You're lucky," Bruce says, and she almost laughs. Natasha tries to open her eyes, and she succeeds, barely. She sees three pairs of legs, possibly Bruce and then two doctors, but Thor's rumbling laugh startles her.

"We are pleased to see you awaken, dearest Natasha," he says, and she can almost feel the warm smile he must be giving her, a little ray of sunshine, and she feels her lips twitch. "I must admit, however, that I was very much surprised by the efficiency of our Shield brothers and sisters in bringing you into a conscious state of being. It went by quicker than my father's horses in the heat of battle! I am very impressed."

"Yeah, well, that's the 21st Century for you," Tony drawls, sounding like he was near her. Must be sitting on a chair beside her. She wonders why he's here. "We're terribly fast, emphasis on both. Right Cap?"

"It's Steve," the man in question sighs, "why can't you just call be by my actual name?"

"It's a sign of affection, ding-a-ling."

Clint groans. "Never take your signs of affection outside the bedroom, please. It's embarrassing." And he sounds as if he was closer to her than Tony is, so she's taking bets that he was hanging around the headboard of her bed. Weakly, she grins, because that is just so Clint that it makes her heart ache. Because Clint is the annoyingly accurate hummingbird whistling past your ear, ridiculous and an unhealthy obsession with the color purple, the one that comes and never leaves. He stays, and he's loyal, hovering over her like some sort of guardian angel-

"Why," Natasha croaks, "are you here?"

And isn't that the million dollar question? Why are you here? It's something she's never been able to answer, not truthfully, not completely, because everyone leaves before she can ask. And then she's alone, again, even when she thinks, she says, she screams, _Not again._ Alone in the shadows, forever silent, because silence means you're safe and safety means you'll survive and surviving means you're _not dead_. Not before you can be important. Not before that.

It's quiet. Then-

"Because we want to see that you're okay," whispers Bruce.

"Because we're your friends," declares Steve.

"Because we're your family," booms Thor, gleefully.

"Because you're one of us," boasts Tony.

"Because, Natasha Romanoff," Clint says, almost like a secret, and it's one Natasha knows she will keep, one she will treasure, and one she will remember. "Because, Nat, we are never going to leave you. Ever."

And they watch as slowly, hesitantly, but surely, Natasha starts to grin.

* * *

When Natasha closes her eyes, it's dark. But there are five strings, five beautiful strings of light and happiness, and she finds that she quite likes the warmth they bring. Even if it's a bit cliche.

And when she wakes up, it's to Clint singing, _We're insane but not alone. _

* * *

_To them, she is always __**the woman.**_


End file.
